...I believe as each woman tells her story for the first time, she breaks the silence, and by doing so breaks her isolation, begins to melt her shame and guilt, making her experience real, lifting her pain.

--Eve Ensler, for NPR's This I Believe

Sometimes you owe the universe a debt of gratitude.

One of the most painful symptoms of the disease that is sexual assault is the silence. At first, the silence is imposed on you from the outside. Most immediately, your assaulter pretends not to hear your cries for help, or in many cases, creates a situation where cries for help are not even possible, or are stifled. You're told, whether actually or symbolically, "Shut up and take it."

After the fact, things are often not much better, and in some ways, even worse. Perhaps you can not expect that someone who is so fucked up and evil that he or she would think it was okay to rape someone would ever be human enough to pay attention to your basic humanity crying out in pain. But after, you assume that others--NORMAL people--will heed that cry. Often, however, that's not the case. Rape and incest makes people uncomfortable. It rocks the societal boat, upsets the balance of things people would prefer remain steady. Hearing and believing the victim means the hearers have to DO something. Ignoring and silencing the victim means they get to keep living as they're used to, with no discomfort for them. The victim's discomfort becomes irrelevant; an unfortunate but necessary side effect to maintaining the social compact.

So more often than not after a rape or assault, the others around you tell or show you in a variety of ways that they'd also prefer you shut up and take it. They make it known they don't want to hear about it. They ask you questions that show you they don't want to believe you. Even if sympathetic, they rarely offer to help or provide support. You get the message, "You're on your own with this."

So you shut the fuck up. And you take it. And you build a wall around yourself, so you can be on your own with it--because that's what they've told you to do and because this is the only way you know how to survive without experiencing more hurt. You stop trying to get other people to hear you or help you, and you start imposing your own silence on yourself.

When I was a teenager, I once had a waking nightmare. I woke up screaming, thinking an animal was biting my arm and wouldn't let go. Terrified, I kept screaming and trying to pull it off. And the more I pulled on the animal, the more it clamped down tighter on my arm. I finally ran across the room, still screaming and struggling with the animal, and switched on the light. When I looked down to see this animal that had attached itself to me, what I saw instead was my own right hand clasped tightly around my left forearm.

That's what the silence of carrying a sexual assault around with you is like. It becomes a sort of living nightmare for the person experiencing it. Part of you is still screaming for help, but there's a hand over your mouth, smothering you. And the scariest part is that it's your own hand.

This silent scream-suppression can go on for years. Decades. It did with me.

The only way to break free of this nightmare, to turn on the light and see and name what is REALLY there, is to get your voice back. But even when you finally are brave enough to realize this is the only way out, it's still incredibly hard to do. After everyone around you has convinced you your only safety and support will come from keeping quiet about it, saying anything about it out loud is so scary that it almost seems better to keep living in that nightmare world than risk more rejection.

And this is why I feel entirely lucky to have started writing this blog, and through it, to have met Hiromi.

When I first started this blog, I still felt pretty alone with my story, and my survival. I was learning to talk about it, but I didn't have any people beside my therapist who I felt I could talk about it with in great detail--mostly because I was afraid of their reactions. But, through my blog, I met two people who I began to get to know and eventually began talking about it with. One of them was Hiromi.

I am having difficulty writing this entry, because words really can't describe what a gift it is at a time like that--or any time really--to run into someone who is is fun and funny and smart and talented and SO fucking cool that talking to her makes you think life might not suck so much after all. And not only that, but someone who "gets" you in a way in which you don't have to explain things you generally need to explain to other people. And who can listen to you without judging you, and can respond in ways that take your own thoughts to higher and more evolved levels. And not only THAT, but someone who seems to genuinely enjoy your company as much as you enjoy theirs. And not only THAT, but someone who gets what it is to be a survivor, and how hard it is to come to terms with that, and how hard it is to validate your experience to yourself and others--and who helps, through her own compassion and undesrtanding--to allow you to gain that validation.

How amazing is it to run into someone like that? People who embody all of those qualities are few and far between.

Hiromi is all that , and more. Talking to her has, among many other positive things, helped me to slowly but surely peel back finger after finger that was covering my mouth until I felt I might actually be okay if I spoke up.

She's helped me be less afraid. And only another sexual assault survivor can really understand the full impact of what that sentence means.

And she's helped me to laugh on some really, really hard days. And everyone can understand the full value of that.

Today I want to tell her that I'm grateful every day that I know her, and that the world is a better place because she exists. And I want to thank her for being her amazingly wonderful self.

So hey, Hiromi:

Girl, you are the shrimp and spicy mayo to my inari. You're the guacamole to my cheddar cheese omelette. Yeah, people might look at both of us together and think we're weird, but they're the ones missing out on something totally delicious.

And here's a present for you, which I hope will be the first thing you listen to when you wake up in the morning. Play it real, real, REAL loud. I propose we learn to sing and feel by heart over the coming year, so that when I finally get the chance to meet you, we can dance and sing our asses off to it together.

Or hell, maybe by then, we'll be so over-brave, we'll be able to stand in front of a crowd of strangers and sing it out loud in front of them--literally AND figuratively.

Photo: The Great Survivor by algo. Please click for larger view after you read the whole post.

Today, I feel like posting my "ground zero" sexual assault story. By this I mean the moment of my actual, physical rape. More on why I'm choosing to call it a "ground zero" story in another post, but right now, I don't feel like adding any side explanations, facts, or disclaimers. I just want to type it out.

The story is below. If you feel reading this will upset you or bring up unpleasant memories, please don't read on. If you read it and find after the fact that you are experiencing emotional or physical upset, please do talk to someone about it who can be sympathetic and supportive. I've included some numbers you can call for support at the bottom of the post.

A while back, a blogger friend of mine told his own rape story and his strength in and style of doing so were a true inspiration to me back before I could do what I'm doing today. Following his example, I am going to keep this simple and straightforward.

I was raped by a family doctor, a gynecologist. I was in high school. I was still a virgin.

It was my first real "woman's checkup." The doctor had been my mother's gynecologist for years. I suspect that he probably suggested to my mother that she bring me in for an appointment now that I was a teenager and approaching the age when I might become sexually active. I am not certain if he was the one who suggested it or my mother thought it up on her own; I have yet to ask about this.

The original plan my mother and I had decided on before we went was that, as it was my first exam and I was nervous, she would be in the room with me, for support. This was something I wanted.

When we got there, the doctor convinced my mother that she should leave the exam room. I believe she was already in the exam room, waiting with me for the appointment to start when this discussion took place, but I remember the discussion better than I remember the physical location of it. In any case, the doctor came in while we were both there and said that when girls got to be my age, he didn't like to examine them with their mothers present. He basically implied not very subtly that I might be sexually active and not telling my mother, and if she stayed in the room, she'd be a bad parent, because I might not ask questions I needed to get answered. Questions a teenager might feel intimidated to ask in front of her mother, which would cause me harm later, if I didn't get answers to them.

My mother and I did not have the kind of a relationship where I would have felt intimidated to ask questions in front of her. I pretty much told her everything, and we'd already agreed that if I ever thought about having sex, I would let her know, so she could help me get appropriate birth control. We had this understanding. But the doctor was very adamant. I still remember the overwhelming feeling of pressure in the situation--it was tense and uncomfortable. He was condescending, and insistent. He made it feel like our hesitation was foolish and we were wasting his time. He used a lot of guilt-inducing language. As he went on, I could see he was planting seeds of doubt in my mother's mind. He even planted them in mind--maybe there were things he might ask me I wouldn't want my mother to know. I remember actually thinking this, though I had no idea what those things would have been, and even though somewhere deep down I knew I didn't want her to leave. Anyway, in the end, we both broke our own resolution we'd made to ourselves and each other, and we did what he wanted.

My mother left the exam room, and he examined me by himself. He never called in a female nurse to attend, as is the common safety rule when a male gynecologist examines a woman. As it was my first appointment, I didn't know that was supposed to happen, so I didn't know it was odd for him to be in there alone with me.

Many small details of the exam are blurred for me now. Only the worst things stand out. But I can say that it was not a constant battery of worst things. It was a back and forth. He'd do something that made me nervous and seemed inappropriate, then he'd do something that seemed very "doctorly" and appropriate. Each time I started to worry something was wrong, he'd switch tracks, and I'd calm down and think I'd been mistaken, until the next scary thing happened. And that pattern repeated itself throughout the appointment. It was very disconcerting, and in a way, hypnotic. It kept me from ever being able to build my panic level high enough to get me to that "fight or flight" stage where one realizes one has no chance for safety except by forcibly fighting to get the hell out of there.

So, I can't give you a blow by blow of the back and forth behavior, but that is how it progressed, in this back and forth way. Of the scary things I remember, here is a list. Also keep in mind that during all of this, I was laying on a table with paper gown on that opened to expose my entire front, and that my legs were up in stirrups so my entire genital region was entirely exposed and spread open. Remember that as this was going on, he was touching and staring at parts of the body that don't get touched or looked at in most medical examinations, or in life in general. Imagine yourself as a teenager in that position, as your doctor did these type of things to you, and you will understand how I felt.

He asked me a lot of inappropriate questions, pretending they were part of the medical examination, and made subtle fun of me if I seemed embarrassed about answering them. He pushed me to admit I was not a virgin, and when I insisted I hadn't slept with anyone yet, he laughed at me and asked me "why not"--as if I should have by then, and I was stupid. He also showed great, smug enjoyment at my being flustered as to how to answer him, and he wouldn't move on with the exam until I said something to answer him. This behavior happened repeatedly after every inappropriate question. The exam would not proceed until he got an answer. And he'd pause wherever he was and stare at me and laugh to himself until he got one.

After the virginity interrogation, he asked me if I knew what kinds of men make the best and worst lovers. I remember desperately trying to consider my response as quickly as possible, measuring the outcome, because I knew either answer I gave was a trap. I chose to say no, and he then launched into a list of which kinds of men make the best and worst lovers, by profession (guess which list doctors were on), and why. He asked me if I masturbated, and pushed relentlessly for details as to how I did it, though I refused to give them to him. He made fun of me when I kept giving him vague responses. During all of this, when he was talking to me and asking me these questions, when he was not specifically doing an exam procedure, he'd lean his elbows on my propped up legs or other parts of my body and rest his chin on on his hand, like he was leaning on a desk. Or he would put his hand on bare parts of my body as he talked to me. NOT to examine anything. He'd stop, ask a question, and just put his hand somewhere on me where there was bare skin, and let it rest there.

This kind of behavior continued throughout the exam, until I was very scared and confused. Many things of a physical nature may or may not have happened,--I've blocked a lot of the specifics of where and what he touched and how he did so out. The only thing I remember is the last part. He stuck his finger in my vagina, purportedly to "examine" me. And then, under the guise of "checking to make sure I wouldn't be too small to have sex when I was ready to," he simulated sex on me with his finger, to "show me what it would feel like." I am not actually sure how many fingers he had inside during this part. He did this simulation act repeatedly, and I don't know for how long, because I just kind of...zoned out, the way you do when you're in shock. I just coudn't really feel anything. But he was not gentle. I know this because I remember gripping the table beneath me so hard that my fingers hurt, to bear the impact of each time the base of his hand hit me. That is all I remember. The feeling of being so unable to handle the situation that I was entirely dulled out, and the feeling of my body tensed and braced in order to lessen the impact of each hit as it punched into me. Everything else seemed to fade out, except for that and one sound...the sound of the paper on the exam table crinkling under my hands as i was gripping it for dear life.

When I remember it, I remember kind of fading in and out from watching it directly as it happened. It was as if I kept going back and forth, jumping inside and outside of myself in rapid succession, and I couldn't settle. First, a flash seeing what was happening straight through my eyes, and next, flash, I'm watching it from the outside like I am a ghost in the room, standing next to the table, watching. Or sometimes watching from way up high. Like I was dead. Like I was passively watching a movie--watching something that couldn't really happen in the real world. Not to me.

While he did this to me, he asked me, "Does this hurt?"

It was hard to talk. I remember my teeth being gritted.

I didn't answer, so he kept going. He asked again, "Does this hurt you?"

I told him "no." That was all I said. "No."

I couldn't feel anything. How could it hurt?

At some point he stopped. I don't know why. Maybe because I was entirely reaction-less, and that was no fun for him. Maybe because he'd gotten his rocks off enough. I have no idea. But he stopped.

I don't remember anything after that. I don't remember how he wrapped up the appointment and got himself out of there. I don't remember getting dressed alone in the exam room, or if I saw or talked to anyone after I left the room. I don't remember how I reacted when I saw my mother again, though I know it was not any kind of emotional outpouring of any kind. I can't remember if the doctor talked to my mother and me together after the exam. I don't remember how I got out of the building. None of it. It's like a dead zone.

I don't remember anything at all until I was in the car with my mother driving home, and I remember very little of the specifics of that conversation. I remember I told her I didn't like him, and that she asked me why. I can't remember how much detail of the exam I told her. I used to tell my mother everything, so my guess is I told her everything, though I don't know. I've blocked it. And since at the time I didn't know what was and wasn't appropriate in a gynecological exam, I am not even sure which details I would have presented to her as bad. The doctor had told me that everything he did had been a necessary part of the examination, and I really had no idea.

I need to insert here a part of the story I didn't know then. I recently found out from my mother that either before or after the exam (I'm not remembering which just now), the doctor took my mother aside when I was not there and told her that because I was a virgin, he was going to examine me in a "special" way, with just his finger, rather than a speculum. He told her this was so he could keep my hymen from breaking (a.k.a., keeping my virginity intact for my future husband). My mother was from a much more conservative time, back when such things still held some value (though it was certainly something that even in her generation was not really "checked for" anymore). Also, she had never gone to the gynecologist until she was married and trying to get pregnant, so she wasn't sure how virgins should get examined. He was her doctor. She trusted him to know what he was talking about, and to act honorably. She believed his story.

Anyway, I don't remember how much I did tell her in the car. I think I may have told her most of it. But the only thing I distinctly remember telling her was this phrase, that still sticks in my head: "He leaned on me like a piece of furniture." That, and that I didn't like the jokey way that he talked to me about my sexuality.

She told me that was just his personality, to be jokey, and I shouldn't take it personally. She told me he had helped her out in a very significant medical crisis, and she would always be grateful to him for that. She said that despite his flippant manner, he was a very good and caring doctor, and would never do anything intentional to hurt me or my feelings.

I can not remember how I felt hearing that.

I said that even so I didn't want to go back to him ever again. She said okay.

And that was the last time I ever spoke of it, or even really allowed myself to think about it, for more than 20 years.

That's it. That's my "ground zero" rape story. While I was writing it, I kept trying to go off on tangents, putting in all kinds of context and information about rape, and about how to help survivors, and what I've learned about my own story in retrospect. But those can wait for other posts. And I found myself, even now, still trying to put in rationalizations, explanations, or defenses for my and others' actions and viewpoints, and for why I wanted to tell this story. I kept trying to sneak in sensory details to try to "convince" you that what happened to me really was horrible, that it really was rape, just in case someone might want to argue with me.

But there is no reason for any of that, so I took it all out.

This is my story.

This next statement may sound defensive if you misread the tone, but actually it's not. It's celebratory. And I say it, very matter-of-factly, for myself and all other survivors out there reading this.

This is my story. I don't need any flourishes, or explanations to tell it. I don't care what anyone thinks about it, and I don't care if you believe me. I'm not ashamed or afraid to call it rape anymore. I'm not ashamed or embarrassed that it happened to me. It doesn't say anything about me and who I am as a person. It is just a fact of my life.

These are also facts of my life: It was wrong. It wasn't my fault. And it was what I think it was. Rape.

It took me decades to be able to understand this, and even longer to believe it, and even longer than that to say it out loud to other people. It was not easy to come to this point, and not simple to figure out how to not just give it lip service, but to really feel it, and believe it. But I do now. Some days I still waver, still have moments of fear and doubt, but each day that I tell it, that wavering gets less and less.

And the pain I experienced to get myself to this point where I could speak this truth? The fear I had to push down to start telling this story? The fear I still combat sometimes in telling it? Well, now that I am at this place, I can promise you this. It is nothing compared to the intense pain of not being able to name it all these years. Of beating yourself up for not being stronger or smarter or more perfect. Of blaming others, but never saying it. Of having your mouth sewn shut when you're screaming inside, crying and tearing yourself up with grief, letting it eat you up alive.

Telling your story, and believing it independent of anyone else's belief, frees you from all that pain. It isn't easy. But it's possible.

So if you have your own story, know that I am with you on it. I believe you. And whether you're ready to tell it or not (even to yourself), by telling my story, I am saying this to you, as well as myself: It was wrong, what happened to you. It wasn't your fault. And it was what you think it was.

You deserve to be believed. And even if you're not believed, it's your story, not theirs. You know. You're right. Don't you doubt your own truth. You don't have to protect anyone's feelings or care about anyone's opinions on this except your own.

And I want to say don't give up. Keep looking. There are people out there who will believe you and support you, and help you learn to believe yourself if you can't right now. Sometimes they're hard to find, but they exist. I promise. My heart is with you if you are struggling--I know how hard it is. But you can make it. I promise.

Don't give up.

I believe as each woman tells her story for the first time, she breaks the silence, and by doing so breaks her isolation, begins to melt her shame and guilt, making her experience real, lifting her pain....I believe one person's declaration sparks another and then another...

Naming things, breaking through taboos and denial is the most dangerous, terrifying and crucial work. This has to happen in spite of political climates or coercions, in spite of careers being won or lost, in spite of the fear of being criticized, outcast or disliked. I believe freedom begins with naming things. Humanity is preserved by it.

--Eve Ensler, "The Power and Mystery of Naming Things", part of NPR's "This I Believe" series. Full audio/transcript here.

Note from Syl: I didn't want to chop up the quote above with loads of editor's insertions, but please insert "woman or man" and "her or his" where appropriate above. It's true for ALL assault survivors, of all genders.

Thanks for listening.

For those who have survived a sexual assault, or think they may have, and need someone to talk to=--or for those who want to find out how to best support an individual who has been assaulted:

In the US:
National Sexual Assault Hotline - 1.800.656.HOPE. Free, confidential, and open 24/7. For women and men.

To find a local rape crisis center and/or hotline in your area, visit http://tools.rainn.org/counseling-centers/index.html

In the UK:
Rape/Indecent Assault Crisis Counselling - 0800 735 0567

Samaritans - 08457 909090

Man2man (for male victims of abuse) - 0208 698 9649

Victim Supportline (Nationwide lo-call service, 9am–9pm Mon–Fri, 9am–7pm weekends and bank holidays from 9am–5pm; Provides information and support to victims of all reported and unreported crime, including sexual crimes, racial harassment and domestic violence) - 0845 30 30 900

If people would like to share hotline numbers for other countries, please add to the comments on this post and I'll add them to the list. Thanks.

---------------------------------

This is a post in a continuing series related to my sexual assault experiences. For those interested in reading the other installments:

All That You Can't Leave Behind

I am She as You Are Me and She is Me and We Are All Together

Maenads' Mantra

Of late, I've had an opportunity to meet with some other women who have also had sexual assault experiences. I have found doing this to be helpful, because survivors of rape often share some similar struggles that others don't really understand. You often feel so alone after experiencing an assault, and you don't realize there are others out there going through and feeling the same things you do. Discovering others have similar struggles, fears, and challenges and hearing how they are dealing with them can be very soothing and sometimes instructive.

So overall this has been a great help to me. But of late, every time one of these meetings happens, after I've shared some innocuous, entirely impersonal thought or perspective, someone starts verbally attacking me in this very aggressive, personal, and angry way. I've only just started to learn how to feel safe asserting my own feelings and not being crushed by others' judgmental statements about them. And I've also only just started to learn how to feel safe and stay calm while confronting anger directed straight at me. (Both these things are difficult for many rape survivors to do). I am getting better at it, but it's still a very scary thing for me to experience and manage.

When it's happened in the above context, I have been able--for possibly the first time in my life--to calmly separate myself from the other person's rage and realize it wasn't about me at all, and then diffuse the situation by just being true to myself and my feelings while at the same down not allowing myself to be intimidated or silenced. And I've been pretty proud of that; it's not something I was ever taught to do naturally. But even so, the regular need to have to do it of late, and particularly with people I expected constant supportive sisterhood from, has left me feeling pretty shaky and somewhat scared to go back in case it keeps happening again.

Then, a few days ago, I was talking one-on-one to a woman who had witnessed what had happened. I commented that people seemed to be getting especially rough on me lately, and she agreed. I said didn't know why that was happening--what was I doing? She thought for a minute and then said she didn't think I was doing or saying anything, technically, that should cause such reactions. She said, "I think you stick up for yourself more--you aren't afraid to express how you're feeling, even if it's not something everyone wants to hear. You seem to believe in yourself more--you seem...self-confident. I think maybe a lot of other people are still really far away from feeling that and maybe that makes them angry, because maybe they're jealous. I think maybe they want to be where you are, because you seem...healthier...and they're mad that you're there and they're not and maybe they want to make you feel like them, because they can't feel like you."

My first reaction was to want to laugh at her saying that I'm being perceived by other survivors as someone who can stick up for myself and believe in myself, and who is markedly self-confident by comparison. I feel I am slowly developing these skills, but I still feel like a tiny gosling who's just pecked my way out of the egg and my feathers are still wet. Each effort to be this way is still exhausting to me. It takes so much work to not fall back on bad, self-critical habits or just cave to other people's feelings or needs or anger. But looked at carefully, as hard as it may be, I realized (with shock) the woman actually wasn't wrong--at least about the first half. However much further I still have to go, compared to where I've come from, and compared to many others of similar experience to me, I am more self-confident, and I am asserting my needs and feelings out into the world.

And realizing this led me to another shocking realization: Unlike what the woman above was supposing, it wasn't that these women are angry or jealous that I'm self-confident. Not really. The anger and aggression being directed at me isn't about ME at all.

It's that they are using me as a guinea pig to see if it's safe for THEM to be self-confident.

I know this because I used to be them. When you've been raped, unless you've been well supported from the start, the most tender and vulnerable parts of your personality tend to burrow deep down into some very dark, presumably safe place (though it's not, really) deep inside of you. And that vulnerable self peeks up from time to time, and says hoarsely in a voice raw from lack of use, "Is it safe to come out?" Usually the test fails and the vulnerable self burrows back down and puts the lid over it's little dugout hiding place.

The way this "is it safe" behavior displays itself is not immediately obvious, though. You see, when you're a rape survivor, you begin to tell yourself, based on people's responses to you and your assault, "I can't do that. I can't say that. I can't feel that. Because if I do, I'll get hurt. Again. And I can't bear more hurt." You think about what people will do or say that might potentially hurt you. You gage people's responses, trying to read into them if the shame and disgust you expect is possibly there. You usually believe it is or will be. So you keep quiet, and you keep up that "I can't" mantra.

And then, suddenly you see someone--particularly someone who might have had an experience like yours--doing something, feeling something, saying something that you've been afraid to do or feel or say. And you are so afraid for YOURSELF, that you respond with the fear of a cornered animal. You lash out. You do the behavior or you say the thing that you are afraid others will do or say to you if you were to do what that stronger person did.

You act disgusted or judgmental or weirded out or angry and dismissive. You ask the person (sometimes verbally, sometimes just mentally) the horrible, destructive, blaming questions you're afraid others might ask you, or that you may even ask yourself. You tell the person to shut up, to keep it to themselves, just like your assaulter told you (either verbally or by implication). Or you try to FORCE her to shut up and not say anything, with angry, hurtful, aggressive behavior, just like your assaulter did to you.

You do this quite unconsciously, but you do it. You don't think when you're afraid, you just react. It isn't really about the person displaying the behavior. It's about the behavior itself and how afraid you are to do it, even as you want to do it very badly.

I know this because in the 20 years in which I was in denial about my assault, I did all of that, sad as I am to admit it. And I even still did it sometimes in the first few months of learning to confront it head on. But from having been that person, I also know this: it's not that the person wants to attack you or hurt you. It's that person's vulnerable self testing to see if it's safe to come out. It's that the person needs to know, to see, that someone can manage to stay steady--can manage to NOT be hurt--even when the imagined worst is thrown at her. When you feel so alone, you sometimes simply can't imagine the life and strength and confidence you wish for deep down in your little dark place is possible. You need to see someone else can do it. And then it takes lots of time to accept and process what you saw. And sometimes it doesn't ever get all the way through. But sometimes, it does allow someone else to see that yes, it IS safe to come outside.

And so, despite it arriving through a challenging experience, this is a momentus thing for me. And entirely astonishing to recognize. I've been working so hard, plowing forward with my line of sight doggedly set on some far horizon, I didn't even realize something amazing had happened right in front of me.

I am no longer that buried, vulnerable half-person, peeking out from the hole asking if it's safe, testing others on the outside who seem stronger. I am the person on the outside, getting tested.

Wet gosling or not, I am out of the egg.

I did it. I did it.

Words can not describe the sense of accomplishment and pride I feel.

The comedian Steven Wright once had this joke that went something like, "While I was gone, somebody rearranged on the furniture in my bedroom. They put it in exactly the same place it was." That's a bit like how I've always felt about figuring out how my sexual assault has affected my response to relationships. Something didn't feel right there, but I couldn't exactly pin down what it was. That's been frustrating because you can't work on something until you know what's there to work on.

I've been had difficulty trying to figure this out because I haven't been able to find a response similar to mine detailed in any literature on the subject. Most of the discussion about intimacy issues due to sexual assault seems to revolve almost entirely around sexual relations. It's oft repeated that post-assault, it's fairly common for survivors to either become 1) very fearful of or disinterested in sex or 2) extremely promiscuous. But neither of those two things ever happened to me. For me, sex was never a problem. I enjoy sex very much, and while I'm not what I'd call inhibited in bed, I've also never had the urge to act out sexually in some extreme, unhealthy way.

So sex was not what felt off for me. And yet something has always felt off. Trying to navigate an intimate relationship often leaves me feeling very unsteady and unmoored. And the books and articles I've read don't talk too much about anything else beyond sexual intimacy that's ever given me a eureka, "That's it!" moment.

Yesterday, though, I think I finally experienced a breakthrough. I believe I was finally able to create a synapse that allows me to articulate the situation to myself in a way that will let me look at it and figure out how to accept and integrate this into my relationships in a conscious way, hopefully resulting in a more positive experience for both myself and my partners.

So, two things that I experience that I think are probably not "normal" for other women when it comes to relationships:

1) Whenever someone approaches me and attempts to get to know me or communicate even somewhat intimately with me (tries to be "personal"), I always immediately switch into a light "feelers out" mode to assess what their "agenda" is. That is, I assume that everyone who approaches me has an agenda, and I have to decide if it's harmful or not. This behavior is consistent across the board with every new interaction I have, but for everyday interactions, it's fast and low key. It's more in the background and not high pressure--I don't feel particularly panicked or unsafe. However, when it is a man (or woman, for that matter) approaching me with overt physical, romantic, or sexual interest, the warning bells go off much louder and this "feelers out" behavior kicks into overdrive. I don't define it as this feeling when I'm doing it, but looked at objectively, I see I do feel "nervous"--in as much as it's as if my nerves and sensors are highly, busily active, disallowing me any level of comfort. When this kicks in, I will do multiple subtle "tests" (or what I see as tests) to assess if the person is "real" and genuinely innocent in his interest, or if he is trying to "play" me. Every word, look, action, and reaction becomes highly magnified and viewed individually of each other.

I'd figured out this one before today, but it's connected to item number two below, which was the missing piece. The part that's interesting is that although I've always known on some level I do this (though perhaps not so consciously), what I didn't know until recently is that most women do NOT do this. I assumed this was natural behavior that everyone partook in--a basic instinctual behavior every animal uses to protect itself from predators. In fact, I thought anyone who didn't engage in such behavior was, well...stupid. And setting themselves up for harm.

2) This was my wake-up realization yesterday, that I'd never been able to see before. I'm sure for most women, as they get to know their lovers or significant others better, they become increasingly more secure in their regard for them. This is not the case for me. Once step #1 above is over, and I've supposedly established for myself who I feel is the genuine person and have begun to develop a relationship with that person, the fear that motivates #1 above doesn't lessen, as logically it should. That "I'm safe with my alpha dog/pack mate/what have you" instinct never kicks in. Instead, something weird happens: the more I grow to trust a man in an intimate relationship, the the more my insecurity in that relationship, my need to test, and my need for reassurance that I am safe with him and that he won't suddenly turn on me and hurt me persists and even grows larger and more frightening.

In short, my fear continues and/or increases as things get better. The more trustworthy the person becomes, or the more staid and predictable the relationship gets, the more afraid I become the person is secretly masking a lack of regard or boredom with me, and that he therefore is or will eventually secretly be doing activities that will devalue or hurt me.

And I think this must be directly related to my assault in large part. Given my first association with aggressive sexual interest was in a context where the person should NOT have been sexually interested in me at all ("responsible" doctor with secret agenda), it's clear why #1 is in effect. And similarly, given that my assaulter was in a highly trustworthy role and exploited that role to confuse me and get one over on me, it's no wonder that #2, is in effect--the more "reliable/responsible/trustworthy/normal" something appears, the more I need reassurance from that person that it's going to STAY that way and not turn into something ugly because I'm not paying enough attention and have allowed the appearance of safety to lull me into being hoodwinked.

This fear results in me feeling as if I need to be continually hypervigilant against the signs of danger, and I can never get relaxed and comfortable with a loving relationship. It leads me to interpret comfortable, long-term relationship behavior displayed by my partner as disregard and disinterest in me that will ultimately lead to devaluation and/or abuse. I can NOT "relax and just groove on it," as one boyfriend once begged me to do. I can NOT "take it for granted" that someone still loves me. I can not "take it for granted" that that person will continue to do so, even if he did so yesterday, or even the hour before. I seem as of yet to be almost entirely without that mechanism that allows one to start relaxing into the relationship, and riding a wave of feeling calm, positive, happy, and...well, safe. I never feel safe. I *need* to be reminded regularly of the things other, normal people can simply take for granted or I become, on some hidden level, terrified. Terrified the monster is going to come out just when I thought everything was okay, proving once again that I'm a fool prone to being used, my judgement is impaired, and I can't "pick" a trustworthy man. (Or perhaps that no men are trustworthy? Probably both.)

And that driving need for reassurance results in still other behaviors I don't even enjoy the feeling of, but compulsively do anyway, such as:

• Directing overwhelmingly high levels of loving affection and attention at the other person
• Becoming a slave to feeding my constant and never ending hunger to be re-reminded that I am in fact loved and treasured as special to him, leading me to act out either directly or passive-agressively in any number of ways (more "testing") to test to see if I am still safe, if he is still thinks I am valuable, or if instead he will turn on me and become something other than what he is purporting to be

Again in short: stifling and needy--which, ironically, are two major characteristics I found most oppressive and ever-present in my own upbringing, and that I find most odious in other people now. They say you hate most in others what you hate most in yourself, and I guess it's true.

Anyway, this was a revelation to me. It's interesting how you can live with yourself and your behaviors for your entire life and not be able to gain perspective on them until some small thing happens and then suddenly...bang, there it is.

I'm not sure how I will work with this knowledge now that I have it. But somehow I feel just being conscious of it will help me have better relationships.

I mean, I know how difficult my lack of consciousness on this has been for me. I *knew* I was behaving compulsively, and I didn't even LIKE it when I was doing it, but I couldn't contain it and I didn't know why. And with no perspective on it, I couldn't explain it to myself or my partners. I wasn't able to take a step back and see what was really in effect. And I can also see how difficult my unconscious behaviors must have been for my partners to deal with, too. It's not comfortable to feel over-loved in a way that insinuates expectation of equal return (even if I didn't consciously recognize I was doing that). And how insulting and infuriating it must feel when you know how much you love someone and she can never really process that. I'd imagine it would seem like I was always calling them a liar. And my desperate fear and need for reassurance might come across as either clingy or pushy, depending, rather than what it really is. And if I wasn't able to articulate for them what it really was, how would they, who don't have my issues, have any idea what's going on?

I'd like to become less insecure and more confident in others' regard of me. I don't want to be so needy of affection that I push others away. And I'd like my lovers to have the comfort and loving relationship with me they deserve--one that doesn't feel for them as if, through my own disbelief in their regard, *I* am making it impossible for them to be able to love me the way I'm asking to be loved (what a terrible trap I've been setting for them and for me!). And one that doesn't in any way make me or them feel I think they're a liar or a potential asshole under an assumed personality.

So I think on both sides me being conscious of this and being able to explain it will help. It will help me step back and examine why I'm behaving certain ways and what the core root of that is. And this will probably help me both contain it somewhat and help me stay centered rather than panicked. And that state of mind would help me explain what's going on to my partner, which would give him a key to what I need to feel safe. I think if my partner were conscious of where my fear lies, he'd have a much easier time understanding and providing the spontaneous reassurance that I need. This might allow us both to head it off at the pass before it goes into overdrive compulsion and becomes something negative for both of us. It would allow us to find a baseline where I get just enough so that I *would* start to become comfortable and safe, but not so much that it becomes a burden. And a shared consciousness of this would also help my partner step back and observe my behavior as something other than what he might have assumed it was motivated by. Rather than assume it's about him and some imagined shortcoming I'm accusing him of, he'll know it's about me, and what about me it is. So he'd be able to ask me good questions when my behavior appeared to be tending toward the compulsive in the above ways, and that would in turn give me the reality check I need to take a breather, stop merely reacting out of fear, and really think about what is going on and what I'm really feeling in that moment.

These are all just thoughts, yet to be tested. But I'm glad I've had the realization. I think it's important. It feels like a missing link I've now recovered. I think it will help.